‘No! In the end, I think she got close to fifty-odd combinations.’
‘Of jam?!’
‘Yep. Whatever berry, fruit, spice, essence, alcohol she could get her hands on. Wait here a sec.’ Sarah darted into the kitchen and returned with a thick, tattered exercise book. ‘This was Grammy’s recipe book. She wrote everything down.’ Sarah passed it to Matthew and he flicked through it. ‘It’s my most prized possession.’
Matthew suddenly realised where Sarah’s humility and simple values stemmed from. The most precious thing in her life was linked to her family’s legacy and the intimate memories she had shared with her grandmother. The special space in his heart dedicated to his own grandfather ached for her. He understood her completely. ‘You brought this with you?’
‘Yep. This and Fergus came with me.’
‘Does anyone else have a copy?’
‘Nope. Just this one. I mean, I have some photos of particular pages that I’ve sent to Mum over the years.’
‘Sarah, this is so precious. Please, once we get a safe, make sure you leave it in there.’
‘I know. I really should. But I just don’t feel like myself in the kitchen without it.’
‘Use it, then tuck it away. What if something happened to it?’
‘Don’t. I even can’t imagine.’
Matthew opened to one particularly worn and weathered page. ‘The “Only” Pav?’
‘One of her best. Nice choice. She said it was theonlypavlova recipe worth making.’
His eyes rolled in delight at the thought. ‘It has been literally years since I’ve had a slice of pav.’ His fingers scanned down the list of ingredients, then traced the lines of Grammy’s almost indecipherable cursive. ‘Can you read this?’
‘I don’t need to. I know that one by heart.’ She righted herself and cleared her throat dramatically. ‘Before you even think of committing yourself to the making of this pavlova, you need appropriate eggs . . .’ Matthew’s eyes followed along in perfect unison on the page, and a wide-set grin formed. ‘Not just any eggs. They must be at room temperature, and you are obliged to use eggs that are a few days old. Should you not commit to this, you run the risk of failing catastrophically in your pavlova endeavour, which will cost you both in time and reputation, and you will have disappointed the chooks. I am yet to decide which outcome is worse. I do fear, however, the latter.’ Sarah ended her recitation by crossing her hands over her heart. ‘I miss her,’ she said, her lower lip turned down.
‘What a woman. She spoke like that?’
‘To. The. Letter. Reading that is like having her beside me.’
‘When did you lose her?’
‘Eight years ago. She went to bed one night and just didn’t wake up.’
Matthew closed his eyes. ‘That’s the way to go.’
‘So peaceful, right?’
‘What was her name?’
Sarah’s lips opened, then suddenly snapped back into a wide smile. Bright-eyed, she said, ‘Violet. But everyone called her Vi.’
‘Really? Violet . . .Viola.’
‘Yes!’ She beamed. ‘How come it never twigged before?’
‘Because we were clearly meant to have this moment.’ His eyes returned to Vi’s recipe book. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? She was the ultimate rural cook. And here you are, about to become the ultimate rural Italian cook.’ His gaze flicked to Sarah, who was caught somewhere between joy and nostalgia. He passed her the recipe book, still open to The ‘Only’ Pav. ‘We’ve got plenty of few-day-old eggs. Want to make one?’ Matthew’s eyes twinkled enthusiastically. ‘In Vi’s memory, in thecucina delle Viole?’
‘Really?’
‘You’ll need to teach me, though.’
Clapping her hands with delight, she announced, ‘It would be my honour, Signor D’Adamo! Then we’ll get kneading.’
‘Kneading?’
